Insert Punchline Here
by thelittlebluepencil
Summary: Sherlock, Lestrade, a fistfight. A bit of violence and language, some tension.


Sherlock recoiled from the punch, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took a step back and laughed; laughed loudly and heartily. "Who knew you had it in you!" he said, his voice ringing with mirth and excitement. He resumed his guard and smirked at his adversary. "Come on, show me you weren't just lucky this time. Hit me again. If you can."

Lestrade lifted the hem of his t-shirt, already drenched, and wiped the sweat from his brow before it could sting his eyes. He was in good shape and quitting smoking had improved his resistance a bit, but by now, he was breathing hard. "Luck," he said, grinning at the equally sweating and panting man in front of him, "has nothing to do with me kicking your skinny arse—"

He rushed forward and took a swing at the place where Sherlock's jaw had been moments before. A hard fist collided with his stomach and he bent in two, holding his middle and hissing in pain.

"You need to spend more time at the gym, Lestrade," Sherlock taunted, gesturing at him to get up and ready himself for more.

"Maybe," Lestrade said, standing up and sidestepping, Sherlock mirroring him so that they were circling each other, studying one another before the next strike. It was always Lestrade who made the first move and seeing how that had gone so far, he decided that it was time to change the pattern. "Maybe I need to get serious."

He waited for the next move. Sherlock smiled, his eyes darting to the left and Lestrade prepared himself to dodge the punch.

To his surprise, Sherlock's fist hit his face, meeting his jaw as he tried to avoid the blow he had expected to come from the other direction.

"Fuck." He spat on the floor, blearily noticing that it was red with blood. Who knew a man like Sherlock could hit so hard?

Sherlock waited until he righted himself, then went for another punch, but this time Lestrade managed to intercept. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and slid a foot forward to trip him. Sherlock, who was already unbalanced from lunging forward, lost his balance and fell, dragging Lestrade down with him.

Down under him, to be precise.

Lestrade was sharply reminded of every bony joint Sherlock had because they were digging into him. He had a knee pressing against his thigh, an elbow against his collarbone and the other jabbing him in the side.

Sherlock laughed again, exhilarated and high on adrenaline. It was catching and Lestrade found himself laughing along with him. He should have grunted and pushed Sherlock off him. But instead he laughed at the situation, at the position they were in and at the pain setting in his muscles and his face.

"You hit bloody hard for such a scrawny guy," he panted between bouts of laughter and more heavy breaths.

"I am not scrawny, I'm lithe. And I thought you'd be more fit," Sherlock replied, boyish glee lighting up his eyes.

Lestrade let his hand go and tried desperately to stop staring at the red, split lip on Sherlock's face he was responsible for. "I managed to parry and catch some blows. I even hit you once. I don't think I fared too badly."

Sherlock leant down on him and whispered on his lips "I think you can do better."

Then John bloody Watson walked through the door of the gym and Sherlock got back up on his feet, not even offering him a hand up. "Same time next week, inspector?" Sherlock asked, bending to get past the ropes and off the ring.

Lestrade replied a weak "yeah," as he scrambled to his feet, wincing at his sore muscles.

Sherlock walked in the direction of John, who shot him a disapproving look before opening his medical kit. "Sit down and let me have a look at that," he commanded and Sherlock incredibly complied, letting the other man order him about and touch him in order to patch him up quickly. "You too, Lestrade," John ordered without turning and continuing to swab disinfectant on Sherlock's cuts.

"Yes, doctor." So Lestrade grabbed a towel, dried some sweat off him and joined them in a corner of the gym, waiting for his turn to be manhandled and patched up.

As soon as John's fingers left his skin, Sherlock jumped to his feet and went to the changing rooms, removing his damp t-shirt as he went. Lestrade followed him with his gaze before he could catch himself; John noticed, but chose to say nothing, opting for grabbing one of his hands and focusing on it.

"At the very least, you could have used boxing gloves..." John scolded him, knowing perfectly well that the same argument delivered to Sherlock would have gone completely unnoticed.

"We... sort of got caught in the moment," Lestrade answered, a bit ashamed, massaging his neck with the other hand. "Ow, he sure can pack a punch. I'll be so sore tomorrow."

John shook his head and took hold of his chin, examining the newly forming bruises on his face. "I don't doubt it. And these," he touched Lestrade's eyebrow and the corner of his mouth, "will show. I'll get you some ice." He grabbed a pack from the box and pressed it to Lestrade's face. "At least I'm glad it's not me he's using as a punch bag."

Lestrade smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners, thinking about the things he let Sherlock use him for. This wasn't even the strangest. "Yeah, you should feel lucky."

When John was done he patted Lestrade on the shoulder and the man winced slightly.

"I'll be here next week too," John said, leaving to follow Sherlock out. "Next time, try to punch him more than he punches you."

As if that hadn't been Lestrade's idea from the moment he had accepted Sherlock crazy offer:

"_You, me, a real fistfight. Beat me and I'll let you fuck me."_


End file.
